


So Shines (Repeated) Good Deed(s) in a Naughty World

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Diego Hargreeves is a Bottom, Other, PWP, Praise Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, prove me wrong, this is self-indulgent garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: It becomes almost like a tradition. Every week or two he’ll drop in and you’ll treat his scrapes and cuts. He never stays for very long and he doesn’t really thank you.





	So Shines (Repeated) Good Deed(s) in a Naughty World

**Author's Note:**

> **Reader is afab and suggested to be femme (mentioning of wearing a skirt and wearing lipstick) because I'm femme and afab. He/Him pronouns for Diego, none for the reader. If you find some pronouns for the reader, let me know! That definitely wasn't intentional and probably got past my beta readers. 
> 
> That's all you really need to know! You can either skip the rest of this note or continue, but everything else is just really production notes. **
> 
> This is was drafted multiple times and I'm still not happy with it, but my beta readers said it was good enough to post so here I am. There's a lot of disconnect and no real ending and it's more plot than porn but it's really meant to be PWP. I just have a lot of emotions about Diego. I read The Umbrella Academy when it was originally published and I'm so fucking excited about the netflix series and he's my fave so my brain kind of just spat this out. It's completely self-indulgent, written for myself, probably out of character, and yet here I am sharing it with all of you in the hopes that it'll scratch an itch that you didn't know you had (or maybe you did, I dunno).
> 
> In the words of my good friend Harkle Sparkle, "Diego Hargreeves is a bottom." Oh, and the title has nothing to do with the poem it references. I just thought it sounded good.
> 
> Enjoy!

Misery begets misery, you figure, as you sit on your fire escape and flick the dying ashes of your cigarette down to the alley below. You’re only half-aiming for the dumpster when you flick the butt and pause before lighting up another one.

Summer in the city is sweltering and you hate how claustrophobic it feels. One of your neighbors is playing something on their stupid home stereo that has the bass cranked up so high that you can feel the vibrations even though you can’t exactly pick out the beat. 

You’re half-heartedly snubbing out your cigarette and considering climbing back into the window when movement catches your eye. The building across the alley from yours also contains apartments and there are windows that face the alley. You figure it’s just someone pulling the blinds closed or something but, nope.

You can see now that there’s a flash and a bang. Oh, fuck. You duck instinctually, even though you’re sitting on your windowsill. That was probably a fucking gunshot. 

You scramble for your phone behind you and nearly fall backwards into your apartment. You think at first that calling 911 would be the best thing but then something else distracts you. 

Someone falls - no, jumps - out of the window that you were just staring at. You lean out your window and look through the grate in the fire escape to see the figure climbing up the ladder and running straight past you and into your living room.

You fling yourself away from the window and behind some piece of furniture to use as cover. You still have your phone in your hand but you don’t even think of that. Instead, you’re trying to figure out what the safest way out of your apartment would be now that this person has entered your home. Back out through the window, maybe?

Your heart is pounding in your ears but you’re somewhat surprised that you haven’t been murdered or worse yet, so you venture a peek out from behind your cover and you see a trail of blood leading from your window to your bathroom. The door is open and the light is on and you hear now someone rummaging through what you imagine is your medicine cabinet.

Against your better judgement, you slowly approach the doorway and risk a look inside.

Stubbornly refusing to assume the gender of the person who has entered your home without permission, you notice that this person looks masculine and is wearing pleather and a domino mask and -- okay, yeah, you recognize him from your childhood and his sister’s tell-all memoir which you read for your book club like two years ago.  
That’s definitely got to be Diego Hargreeves.

Despite the fact that you recall the memoir being quite critical of him (his sister called him absolute jackass which totally had to hurt) you figure that he’s one of the good guys. Or at the very least, he won’t try to straight up murder you. Probably.

So you knock on the door hesitantly and really hope that he doesn’t try to throw one of his damn knives at you. He freezes and turns around toward you as if he didn’t dive through your window past you like a minute ago.

“Hey,” you say and it’s more of a squeak than anything. He has a look on his face like he can’t believe that you’re possibly intruding upon his mission of going through your things. You force yourself to speak in defense of your meager first aid supplies that was bought with your hard earned money, “can I help you?” 

“Do you have a needle and thread, like for sewing?” 

You didn’t notice until now when your attention is drawn to his arm by him rolling up his sleeve. There’s a cut that’s seeping blood through the fabric of his sleeve and you wince empathetically. 

“Lemme see what I can find,” you manage, and you dig through your craft closet until you come out with a hand sewing needle that’s still in the packaging and a new spool of thread that’s in a bright, offensive lime green color. You grab some peroxide as an afterthought from your linen closet. 

Diego had peeled off the domino mask while you were out of the room and now and it’s on your sink. He’s facing away from you and in the middle of taking off his shirt when you walk in and you catch the artwork of new and old bruises, scars, and cuts on his back. You’re not sure what to say but he’s already turned around and is taking what you brought him out of your hands. 

He doesn’t even seem to notice the offensive color of the thread, he just dips the needle into the peroxide and threads it. You feel a little bit voyeuristic to be standing awkwardly in your bathroom as a minor celebrity tries to sew himself shut with the thread you bought three years ago for a project you never got around to. 

You swallow the awkwardness and wash your hands in your sink which requires you to basically stand next to him to do it. 

“Please let me help you? That’s so gross that you’re sewing your own arm shut.” 

That’s a little bit more honest than you intended but his stoic expression relaxes a bit. And then he grins.

“Okay, sure, fine, go for it,” he offers you the needle and and it’s connected to the thread that’s still in his arm. Ew. You didn’t think he’d actually let you do this, but you did volunteer. Okay, great, fine.

He’s taller than you so that makes it more awkward, but he notices your struggle and sits on the closed lid of your toilet. You try not to think of the fact that he’s watching you sew him closed, but after twenty or so stitches, you’re finished. You tie off your knot as gently as you can while still making it tight so the stitching doesn’t come loose, and you toss the needle into your garbage can. Diego has already fished a tube of neosporin out of your medicine cabinet and you spread it across your work with a gentle fingertip.

He stands up slowly, bracing his arm on the counter top, and brushes past you. He bends down to gather his things and something in your brain must be a bit off (and later you’ll blame it on the adrenaline of having a random-ass dude jump through your living room window and the fact that he has such a cute butt), but when he moves to leave your bathroom you say, “if you need any more help, I’ve always got a needle and thread handy.” 

He pauses for a minute to consider you and then nods slowly and climbs back out of your window and you can hear the clang of the fire-escape as he descends.

\---

 

After a few days of sweltering summer heat, you’ve all but forgotten the events of that night. Your landlord finally fixed your air conditioner and instead of having all of your windows open with the fans on you had opted for shut windows and laying miserably on the couch. 

At first you thought that you were imagining the knock on your window but after it became more persistent, you get up and open the blinds.

There crouched the familiar sight of Diego Hargreeves, sans domino mask, bleeding from a cut across his nose. 

You hurry to open your window to let him in and he climbs in without asking and stretches to crack his spine. 

“What happened?” you ask as you follow him into your bathroom before you even really consider that it isn’t your business. The shock had worn off almost immediately when you remembered that you’d basically invited him back the last time. Curse your thirst.

You are, however, pleasantly surprised when he answers you.

“Dove out a window, actually,” he starts, looking at himself in the mirror and sighing at the seeping cut.

You hadn’t really put away your first aid stuff. In cleaning your bathroom, you had just picked it up, wiped down under it, and sat it back down where he’d left it. Maybe in the vague hope that he really would come back next time he needed patched up.

So he takes his place on the closed lid of your toilet and looks up at you expectantly with his big brown eyes and something in the back of your mind whispers about rich kids and spoiled habits but you shake it off and pull some hand wipes out of the closed container next to the sink to wipe the blood off of his face.

Getting a deeper look at the cut, your meager first-aid training tells you that it isn’t deep enough to scar, though it really would just match the rest of the scars across his face if it did. Something other than his sister’s book tells you that his own personal safety is rarely a concern for him. The scars make him look older than he is, though. He’s only a few years older than you, if you remember correctly.

You don’t even have to stitch him closed this time. You gently rub more neosporin across his nose and put a bandaid ontop of it. It doesn’t do much to cover it but you hope that it’ll keep it clean, at least. 

“Anything else?” you ask, glancing him over. He shrugs and does a little wiggle like he’s trying to check to see if anything else ails him. 

“Got any ibuprofen?” He asks, and you open your medicine cabinet and hand him the bottle. You intend to give it to him, but he just fishes out a few capsules and hands it back to you. 

“Thanks,” he says, and heads for your window. You’re not sure if he hears you quietly reply.

\---

It becomes almost like a tradition. Every week or two he’ll drop in and you’ll treat his scrapes and cuts. He never stays for very long and he doesn’t really thank you. You find yourself picking up extra things when you do your weekly shopping. More sewing needles, an icepack, extra ibuprofen, gauze, and more hardy bandaids of different sizes. 

You find yourself drawn to emergency first-aid books and historical field surgery guides when you see them sitting in the window of your favorite secondhand bookstore because you’re worried that he might come to you with something too big for you to handle. You think a moment and then put the surgery guides back on the shelf with a little pull in your heart. You barely know this dude and you’re probably overstating the importance you have in his life. 

For all you know, he’s some reckless wannabe vigilante who wants to relive his days of fame and is going to bleed out in some alleyway. You’re strangely comforted by his visits because it means that he’s not going to be the day’s next headline of some famous has-been that has been found somewhere. 

\---

You return home from work with a sigh and you’re surprised that you aren’t swarmed by your cats when you walk in the door. You set down your stuff and toe off your shoes and set them in their place next to the door. It’s December now, so your scarf and coat join the winter gear hanging faithfully in its place. 

You’re considering ordering takeout when you hear a swarm of attention-wanting meows coming from your living room. Your cats only do that when there’s someone whose attention they’re fighting over, and it certainly isn’t you. So you tiptoe around the corner from your foyer to look into your living room and there’s Diego Hargreeves, crosslegged with three cats on his lap and trying to pet them all at once. He looks his age, for once.

“Welcome back,” he says nonchalantly, not moving to get up from his place on the floor. You see that his black eye is healing now, it’s that horrible half-healed green color, and he’s got a freshly busted lip. Despite it being day time, he’s still wearing his same crime fighting outfit. You wonder if that’s all he wears. Other than the split lip, he doesn’t really seem to be in any kind of pain or discomfort. 

You walk over to him and sit down beside him to assess him better. Your cats swarm to you now, leaving him free and covered in a significant amount of cat hair. Serves him right for wearing black in your humble abode when the babies are awake and want attention.

You invade his personal space by pressing gently on the bruise around his eye. He regards you passively as he always does. You lift his chin towards you and run your thumb across the split in his lip.

There’s nothing you can do for that other than give it time to heal. You consider buying medicinal chapstick for him and then almost laugh at the thought. Instead, you find yourself leaning in and pressing your lips against his because, oh, fuck it. 

Your cats aren’t getting the attention that they want so they go back to whatever they were doing. Diego has his hands on your hips now and you’re sucking on his split lip which is probably not making it better. He pulls you on top of him and slides the pads of his fingers up under the back of your shirt and then slowly scratches his blunt fingernails down your back. This is when you realize that he’s ditched his gloves somewhere. 

You move to pull your shirt off and you toss it across the room despite the fact that it’s one of your only nice work shirts. You unhook your bra and send it sailing along after your shirt and he moves to undo whatever strappy dealio he’s got going on over his shirt. You’ve seen him undo it before but you’re glad that he isn’t leaving it up to you to attempt. You pull up your skirt above your hips and he gives you one last gentle kiss on your lips before he presses his mouth against your neck and bites down gently. He slides his fingers up your thigh and pushes your underwear aside to circle your clit with his forefinger. 

The sound you make is a shaky sigh and you sit up on your knees and lean against him more as his finger starts tracing the ABCs against you. He sucks where he’s bitten your neck and you’re embarrassed and delighted in equal measure that he’s giving you a hickey. 

You hear a whimper when his finger pulls away from your clit and, oh, that must be you. You must have made that horrible needy sound. You’re almost embarrassed about that, but you gasp sharply when his finger presses inside you instead, and then another joins it. You feel stretched but not satisfyingly so and your clit is still achingly missing the attention it was getting, but you know what he’s getting at. Diego removes his fingers from you and kisses the hickey he just gave you and it stings a little in response. The uncomfortable feeling of wet skin meeting the air in such a localized place distracts you just a little, but not enough for you to wipe his spit off of you.

Okay, that’s gross, but whatever.

You’re not sure when he undid his fly but you’re not asking questions. He steadies your hips and you hold him steady with your hand around his dick and bring your hips down to impale yourself on him. It’s a good thing, too -- sitting up on your knees like you were was getting a bit precarious. 

Whoever taught him this taught him really well, because he’s kissing you like he really means it and rubbing your clit in gentle circles again as your hips pick up a rhythm of half-grinding and half thrusting against his in a desperate plea for friction. His other hand -- the one that was formerly being used to finger you a little -- is holding one of your breasts. You can still feel the drying wetness of you on his fingers. 

Again, gross, but whatever.

“Diego,” you coo to him, and achieve little response. He’s got his eyes closed and a look of determination on his face like he’s trying his hardest to hold out. Hmmm. 

“You’re such a good boy,” you try, and sure enough, that gets him. His eyebrows furrow and he bites his lip. Oh, yummy. You kiss him between his eyebrows and pull his hand away from your chest to entwine your fingers with his. 

“You’re so good, Diego,” you continue, quickening your pace, relishing in the feeling of him inside you and your slick wetness against him, “you make me feel so good, you know that?” 

“Yeah?” he asks, and his tone is all breathy and has none of his usual machoness. 

“Mhm,” you answer, and it’s getting hard to keep your voice steady. He’s opened his eyes and you’ve taken to pressing gentle kisses against his mouth, “you’re so wonderful,” and you’re scrambling for praising adjectives because your brain is just about short-circuiting, “you’re so lovely, you sacrifice yourself for others and it’s so admirable.”

He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of creativity. In fact, he’s leaning more and more into it. You’re never said the word ‘admirable’ while fucking someone and you’re surprised that you could manage it, to be honest.

“You’re such a good boy” and he inhales sharply and you speed up your thrusts with urgency as his fingers quicken their rubbing against your clit, “and I’m so proud of you.”

And that’s what finally breaks him. You melt a little bit when he cums inside of you, hot and thick and the blissful look on his face makes it totally worth it. Despite his own orgasm, his fingers continue their slightly uncoordinated pace on your clit and your thighs shake as you cum quickly after him. 

You sit up on your knees again and he slides out of you. You sit back on his lap and he slaps your ass and grabs a handful. His fingers are still sticky and your skirt is still up around your waist and it’s making you sweat a little bit. You’re considering how to get it down over your ass without getting body fluids all over it so you pull it over your head and it joins everything else across your living room. 

It’s only after you glance back down at him that you realize that he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes. Of course he’s the type that needs taken care of afterwards. You should’ve figured that.

The lipstick that you put on this morning is a nice neutral pink but it’s smeared all over Diego’s face and you’re only now noticing. It’s probably all over you, too. You press kisses against his cheeks and forehead and reach between you to readjust your underwear which are just a wet lost cause at this point. 

Deigo lifts his hips to pull his pants up and you sit down on him to stop him, because, no. 

“Why don’t you take a shower first?” you suggest, and recognition comes across his face. And then he grins sheepishly.

“I actually didn’t know if you’d be home or not,” he says sheepishly, “but that’s actually what I came for ‘cause I don’t have any hot water at my place. Oh, and do you mind if I do some laundry? I saw your building had a laundry room.”

You figure he’s probably going to want some quarters too but you’re so hesitant to get up because you feel like it will be an acknowledgement of the desperation that you both just experienced. In the moment of your hesitation, he kisses down your neck and bites on your collarbone. Despite how satisfied you feel, the hickey he’s giving you is sending sparks to your fingers. 

You’re cursing refractory periods but, eh. Somehow you figure that this might become your next fun tradition. That’s when you dreamily remember the scar on his arm that remains from when you stitched him up a few months ago. You’ve seen it enough times to know where it is without looking and you trace your finger over it like you did when you first applied neosporin to it. The shiver you get in response is more satisfying than it should be.


End file.
